Bare Silence
by LifeOnMarsGirl
Summary: Molly Hooper has been greviously injured by an unidentified source. She begins constructing her very own Mind Morgue to try and catch her assailant. However Molly believes that she is dead and gone, whilst her friends wait for her to wake from a severe coma. With his pathologist on the brink Sherlock wills her to fight on. But will she realise her life isn't over in time?
1. Chapter 1

Bare Silence

The bullet went straight through my skin. Lodged itself deep into my heart. Apparently they couldn't remove it, it was so deeply embedded. I couldn't feel it, I just felt normal. There were a lot of people standing round me, I thought they were doctors at first, but they weren't, they were my colleagues, the morgue technicians. With their white coats and their ridiculous goggles, I wondered if I had looked that ridiculous wearing those, did they think they were going to catch something, as far as I'm aware, there's no known disease to be caught from gun shot victims.

I feel, nothing, well, not nothing; but I know that I'm gone. It's like, floating, endlessly. They slide me away into the freezer but I still see, and hear the things around me. I'm dully aware of the cold, but it doesn't chill me to the bone, not like it did that night.

I hear things about it, people talking, discussing what happened. None of it makes sense, not what they are saying. They say things about Sherlock Holmes, how he was the last one to see me alive, how we were secretly together all along. None of its true, Sherlock was a just friend, that's all. And he didn't even arrive till afterwards, till after I was gone. I only remember because he gave me his coat, but I had already stopped feeling the cold.

I hope they catch my killer, you see the problem is, I can't remember who my killer was, and it was all so rushed. I had just stopped outside my flat. I think I dropped my door key, it was something stupid, something insignificant, I think I remember bending down, and then blinding light, think that was just the pain, but it could have been Lestrade in his car. My memories flood back to me know and then. In my own head I believe it to be one of the great ironies in life, the fact that I am now able to construct a mind palace like Sherlock's, simply because my mind is endless; however my mind is not called a palace, it is known as a morgue. For that is where my tale begins, and it is where it shall end.

My memories slip into my subconscious now and then, they take the form of fish, shoals of them passing through, artfully dodging away from my prying prefrontal cortex. Some days I worry as I start to forget more, names and faces shift back and forth in my brain, darting just out of reach, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, as no words shall ever grace my tongue again.

The other day I remembered something from long ago, a nickname I believe, Mousey Molly. And for the life of me (Ha!) I cannot fathom why, I'm pretty sure I didn't look like a mouse, but then again, I'm beginning to forget exactly what I do look like.

I do not hear the soft beeping of the machines at my bedside, or the soft grumblings of people passing by, for I believe I am dead, after all no one could survive a wound like that, could they?


	2. Chapter 2

There is little or no sound in this place. I'm beginning to see why Sherlock likes his supposed mind palace so much. But then again, I'm not sure how long I intend to stay here; Sherlock can roam the halls of his sanctuary for hours if not days, I have no idea if I am that patient.

I have often wondered if I am there, in one of those mind locked rooms of his, or if those are only reserved for those who hold a special place in his non existent heart. I swear if I were alive I would be crying right, but I am not and no one, not even Sherlock, can deduce me now.

For being dead, I can still feel so much, it's pretty confusing, this feeling of constant pain in my chest. Almost like a fire, burning my battered body, well, corpse rather, taking every breath I had and erasing it.

Today I roam my Mind Morgue, looking into each room forlornly, it is concerning how as each moment passes more seems to disappear from the space. All my memories are slipping away. There is one room that is still full however, my own, it is puzzling to me, for some reason things that were never there before seem to be appearing; it was my immediate assumption that after death memories died with you, dispersing back into the very atmosphere they came from. But each minute I enter this particular room there is a new byte of information lodged there.

For instance only a short time ago (at least I think it was a short time) a new file appeared in the Mousy Molly section of the room, an item which made little sense to me, and still brings tears to my eyes now, a ring, scintillating there in the darkness. I have no idea what it means, but for some reason, I wish too.

The strangest item that has appeared in that room is an anatomical heart, beating in rhythm to an unheard beat; it sits on the important shelf, next to the self appointed head of admissions, the brain. Each day the heart seems to shrink, and when this happens a single droplet of fluid runs from the brains hippocampus, pooling underneath the organs mid section.

In the hospital, more monitors are hooked up to the young woman's arms aiding her failing heartbeat, she lies despondently in the small bed, her body frail and white as a sheet, her hair spreading out as if immersed in water. The heart monitors beep faster as each spike on the cardiograph documents another pulse of the weakened organ.

Slowly the door to the room opens and a tall man in a black coat strides in, paling at the sight of the woman, it is clear he is unprepared for the shock of her injuries or the fragility of her life balance, slowly he stutters out a few choked words, "what have I done?"

Somewhere in her Mind Morgue there is a small tremor, it spreads eagerly around the space, and emanating from one of her rooms, running fast, her heart beating she reaches the source of the shudder. Stopping in front of a familiar door with a large knocker and gold lettering, creaking open a little the room reveals a slowly pulsating object. Molly smirks; it appears that somehow: Sherlock Holmes, has grown a heart.


	3. Chapter 3

She looks so peaceful lying in-between the crisp cotton hospital sheets, her heart beat wavering erratically here and there in front of his eyes. He watches as her chest rises and falls in an uneasy rhythm; these are the only two signs of life emanating from her otherwise deathly still form.

Sherlock bows his head in silence, slowly walking over to the desolate young woman. Without a word he sits down on a chair next to the bed and clasps his hands together, he had always mocked her for her over chatty ways and her stuttering jokes. Now he misses it immensely, the sound of silence encapsulates the room, smothering everything in its wake. He simply sits on the chair, lifting his head to stare helplessly out of the window across the room, highlighting the cold London streets, like a map of neurons in a central brain. In each street lights flicker off, leaving only the slightest trace of the inhabitants.

Still smirking Molly wanders into the room, the heart still beating in a steady manner in the middle of the room. Upon entering the room she is overwhelmed by the smell of tobacco and other unidentifiable scents which are unmistakably Sherlock. For a moment she is stilled by the amount of files here, each one in its own specific place. Even she didn't realise just how much information she held on the detective.

Wandering over aimlessly to the shelf labelled "interactions" she pauses; it seems that more information has been added here too. On it is the symbol of a bird, but why, to her knowledge Sherlock has never bothered talking about birds. She clasps her hands to her sides and clenches her fist in a desperate effort to remember the conversation, and is bitterly devastated when she cannot. Yet another piece of information has escaped her, she despondently places the file back on the shelf, where the edge promptly begins to disintegrate.

Back in the hospital it is night time, and all the corridor lights have been dulled, only the distant sound of nurses shuffling feet and vending machines remain, punctuated only by the blips of Molly's heart monitor. It is then that Sherlock Holmes speaks: one small sentence that will change the course of this moment in time forever,

"I'm sorry Molly Hooper, caring is not an advantage."

Slowly and sadly he turned to the door, his long coat sweeping behind him, a silent salty, sentimental tear pooled in the corner of his eye, briskly wiped away by his own hand, the door slammed behind him sealing the deathly silence in.

Somewhere in the Mind Morgue there is a creaking sound, an ominous noise of destruction as one of the beams supporting its very structure begins to give way, splintering at the top and producing a crack centralised in one place. Molly stares wide eyed at the destruction, and guesses that she is close to leaving this place, suddenly a dripping noise can be heard from inside one of the rooms, as a puddle of grey water slowly begins to form underneath Sherlock's heart, seeping out towards Molly and pooling around her feet.


	4. Chapter 4

Molly can't quite understand why the heart keeps seeping out. This place which was a calm haven is turning into a chaotic mess. She wishes that she could wake up, she guesses that's the bad thing about being dead, you don't get to come back and give life another go.

She wonders when they will bury her, she can't understand why she is still in the freezer, surely Sherlock must have solved her death by now, it was only a mugging, wasn't it?

In 221B he watches out the window as the ordinary people go about their dull life. He has sworn to solve her case, but he hasn't realised how difficult it is to cope with the living, he almost understands why Molly chose to work with the dead, they didn't have feelings to destroy.

John Watson is worried about his friend, he hasn't left the flat for at least two weeks, and the last time he left was a visit to Molly in the hospital. John shakes his head, there is little hope for her, and it seems only a matter of time.

Upon entering his former home he is greeted by a complete and utter mess. Bits of paper and notes lie strewn all over the barely visible floor. And in the middle of the complete and utter chaos sits a cross legged consulting detective, at a complete loss of how to solve a case with no body, at least not yet.

It is quiet in her mind morgue today, no sudden shakes or disruptions, just the serenity of silence. Molly wonders why everything is so still. She expects at least to hear the constant hum of what she assumed was the morgues generator, its noise irritating yet somehow comforting. Slowly she walks towards her own room, the bleached corridors reminding her of the job that she once cherished.

She stops outside the room and tries to open the door, the door handle appears to be stuck, her mind is beginning to rebel. She cannot forget her life, with more determination she prizes the handle, pulling with all her strength. Finally in one swing, it opens and she is struck with her whole life memories, they whizz around her head colliding painfully around her, everything begins to shake and her eyes begin to roll, she can't understand what's happening. How can your mind collapse when you are already dead? Before the darkness collides she swears that she can feel a hand holding her own; but she believes it to be only a hallucination, and promptly continues her journey into the unavoidable black hole.

John stares at his best friend, watching intently his frenzied hand movements and twitching fingers, he opens his mouth to protest Sherlock's crazed behaviour when he feels his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. Quickly recognising the hospitals number he flips his phone open expecting yet another relapse stomach pump for his sister. Instead his face pales as he hears the message.

"Sherlock, we better get to the hospital…"

"Why would I want to go there?" he replied caustically.

"It's Molly, Sherlock, she went into cardiac arrest earlier today, they've managed to revive her…but, her condition's deteriorating."

Somewhere in the great Sherlock Holmes' mind a pillar comes crashing down in front of the room marked Molly, sealing in all the memories, protecting her legacy.

For once in his life Sherlock feels a pain in his chest and he wonders what inspired him to grow a heart, after all, what happened to his barriers of loneliness,

What happened to "Alone is what protects me."

After all it never worked for Molly.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly was still alive, just. Sherlock shook himself as he looked at her fragile body lying on the small bed in the intensive care unit, he was only allowed to watch as they manhandled her and hooked more machines up to control her vitals. No one could understand what had caused the arrest, most of the nurses believed that it was simply her body giving up, but it couldn't be: Molly Hooper wasn't the type for simply giving up.

She was disorientated, her Mind Morgue was seemingly still intact and her functions seemed to be fully cooperating, she wasn't fully aware of what happened but Molly was beginning to get the feeling that she wasn't as dead as she first believed. She was still going on the assumption that she no longer had control of her own body, and that she could in no way influence those around her, but the pain she had felt in her chest while her Morgue collapsed around her was entirely too real to be a simple projection of her mind. Concentrating hard she began to rearrange the many files and documents which had been dislodged from their positions. Sighing, she slowly tried to recount every piece of information she knew about Sherlock Holmes, for that room seemed as good as any to begin with.

He wanted to reach out and touch her, to convince himself that she still existed, that this miracle survival rate could continue. That if she could just hold out a bit longer he could save her. He knew he could solve her case; find the evil criminal who had dared to harm her, his pathologist. But at this moment, he hadn't the strength to continue, as each beat of her weak heart resounded through the hallway, a beat of his own thudding rhythm keeper echoed in time with it. He couldn't help it, these, feelings were corrupting him. Sociopaths didn't feel, couldn't feel. So why? Why was she affecting his brain, giving him a heart that he didn't want, didn't need?

Molly Hooper knew a lot about Sherlock Holmes, she was unaware just how much information she had gathered over the years, yes there was his appearance and his interactions but there seemed to be a file for everything; his laugh, his smile, even that sarcastic smirk she had once detested. Slowly and precisely she began to sort them into order, least to most important. This was almost the only room to have any kind of order, and she wanted to prolong the peace that it brought her before moving on to any of the more unorganised cluttered rooms. She smiled; trust Sherlock Holmes to be her inadvertent saviour.

He looked at the bed one more time before turning away. The pale sheen of her skin is sickly and pallid, her chest rises and falls in miniscule amounts, Sherlock cannot find even the energy within himself to deduce her. It is crippling, this sentiment he feels towards the young woman, and she is cluttering up his Mind Palace, unravelling her own investigation. Suddenly he knows what he must do. Sorting through his own Palace he comes to the pillar blocked door, locking its creaking portal lock, a sign flashes red in his mind, DELETE?

After all, sentiment is a weakness found on the loosing side…


	6. REVIEW THANKS!

This is just a little thank you to all my followers and reviewers that are keeping up with my stories, either this one or any of my previous works. I will try to keep updating with new chapters, and I will try my utmost to ensure quality of my work! Thanks all you guys who are following or reviewing, you make writing this worth my while

Love and Virtual Pancakes

Life on Mars Girl

x


	7. Chapter 6

She is beginning to hear things, jumbled noises spinning irritatingly round in her mind, opening the doors of rooms that she doesn't want to enter. Unearthing memories of complete irrelevance. Why? What are these sounds?

BEEP

The sound of shuffling feet is palpable, nurses moving back and forth between their stations, tending to patients who are destined to survive. The writing still flashes in his mind, red, pulsating, dangerous. They are an ominous reminder of the decision he must make. She is clouding his judgement, cluttering his mind palace with her constant confrontation and her information overload.

Sherlock is confused, for once in his life he doesn't know what to do, he has to find Molly's assailant, but can he afford to loose every single precious memory of her existence, can he cope without her, is sentiment really that much of a distraction?

She doesn't know why, but running around the Mind Morgue is becoming more difficult, every move she makes is laden with stiffness, it hurts to open doors, and her memories have become more distant. As each sound grows clearer her grasp on her Mind Morgue fades, structures of infinite importance simply slipping away into the catacombs of her inner self conscious.

They grow louder, these unidentifiable noises, clamouring and shuffling, and there constant serenade backed by a single ominous

BEEP

She doesn't understand, why is it suddenly so loud. She thought that silence suited her, such a change from the usual noise filled requiem of her day to day life. Until one day she feels something change, she begins to feel her limbs, or what she believes to be her limbs start to wake. Her Morgue, her carefully constructed version of reality, begins to slip through her fingers, till there are only two rooms remaining. Her own, and that of Sherlock Holmes.

She isn't improving; it seemed so, for a start, odd twitches here and there, movement of the eyelids. All circumstantial, all of little consequence. He has not left the hospital, choosing instead to watch her breathing apparatus working her lungs, studying to find any signs of life. Knowing that he won't. Sherlock Holmes is not a stupid man, far from it, but he takes little pleasure in watching life slip away before his eyes. He knows he cannot stay here indefinitely, he understands that he cannot simply abandon a case for the sake of another human being.

Sherlock Holmes knows that he must come to a decision, and it will not be an easy one. Each time he tries to access the reason section of his Mind Palace it is blocked, rendered virtually impenetrable by his own head. He knows that he must help her, he knows that it will not be that simple: for it concerns emotions, and that is something which cannot be allowed to affect the Great Sherlock Holmes, it is better for others to believe that the man has no heart than to allow them to crush it with their own inadvertent foolishness. It is for this reason that Sherlock shuts his eyes, retreats to his mind morgue and faces the red writing. When he awakens he feels little regret at walking out of the clinical building he has almost lived in for the past week, his long coat bellowing behind him, his eyes once again as cold as the stone walls surrounding him.


	8. Chapter 7

Molly can hear the outside world. It lingers in the peripherals of her Mind Morgue, beckoning her to join its incessant movement. The hum of her own breathing surrounds her, reedy, heavy, laboured. But it is there. Molly begins to realise that her own heart is still beating, regardless of her surroundings, she is still alive.

Memories swirl around her; they are bold, colourful, but vague. She fears their opalescence. Without her mind Molly Hooper is nothing, she is but an insignificant spec on this heaving planetarium that we call home. She wonders, or rather paces, back and forth between the remaining rooms. Sherlock. Molly. Sherlock. Molly. Sherlock. Will he be there when she wakes up, will he even know? Molly thinks not.

Suddenly there is a jolt, as if in slow motion she is falling, her Morgue tilted sideways sending her vision askew. The rooms are gone, as if they never existed, and Molly Hooper is once again an empty shell.

Sherlock appears at the crime scene with little warning. Flouncing in with his usual dramatic flare. John simply stares, standing next to the equally flummoxed DI Lestrade.

"Well, don't simply stand there; use some of your kinetic energy to at least close your mouths."

Both their reactions are simultaneous and abrupt, silently they evaluate the detective, although his clothes are slightly rumpled indicative of his long hospital stay there is little wrong with him. Sweeping past the two gobsmacked people Sherlock closes his eyes, opening them he takes in the entire scene.

Father of two.

Recently divorced.

Anxiety disorder.

Alcoholic brother.

Estranged sister.

"It was the sister." Sherlock smirked characteristically.

"How, he hadn't even spoken to her in two years, she said so when we spoke with her!" DI Lestrade shook with anger and hidden admiration at the detective's quick evaluation.

"Oh Gavin…" both Lestrade and John shook their heads.

"There is such a thing as lying, I should know…"

With that confusing statement Sherlock Holmes stalked off around the corner, leaving no sign that he had ever even been there.

She was alone, the room was oppressive, so white and clean, its vibrancy hurt her eyes. No one was there when Molly Hooper woke up; no one had been there when she was dead either. Molly supposed it was the best she could hope for. They had told her she had suffered some kind of amnesia, remembering things that only mattered a long time ago, she knew who she was, what she was, but there was a niggling in her mind, a memory trying to branch out and make itself known that she couldn't quite grasp. Her Mind Morgue was locked, she was unable to even enter her own room, in the corner there was a space, ominously gaping, and open like a wound, like a great black hole. This was her empty space, her storage drive, as she began to try and resurface memories it began to fill up, within only a few moments she had one shelf done.

Molly Hooper quietly smiled to herself, humming a little as she twisted her head to the window, she could have sworn to have heard the somewhat familiar sound of a faded voice. But as we all know, to store more data, some bytes must be deleted.

And somewhere buried deep in the chaos of Molly's partially destroyed Mind Morgue lay a deletion bay, and within it. In the epicentre of her entire mind, lay the body of a rather forgotten consulting detective.


	9. Chapter 8

She was awake at least, she could see, hear, concentrate on the minute movements of the other people around her. A couple of nurses had been appearing on a fairly regular basis, just to check her vitals, they were lying, she hadn't been born an idiot, they just didn't like seeing how alone she was. No one had visited Molly since she woke up. Apparently someone called Mary had wished her well. But the name didn't ring a bell and Molly sensed that there was a lack of sentiment behind this Mary woman's words.

Time meant nothing to the ever over stimulated Sherlock Holmes. So when John entered 221B he had to physically shake the detective to wake him from a literal two days of silence. "Sherlock, how are you really, I know you think that you have to put up these walls when it comes to anything sentimental, but it's ok to break them once in a while…"

Soon a terse and worrying voice replied "John, I have absolutely no idea to what you are referring to. There have been little traumatic incidents in either of our lives of late and I have a steady stream of cases piling in from the somewhat useless Lestrade, now kindly sit down and tell me the true reason you are here."

John simply stared at the detective, was what he saying true, was he truly not bothered by one of his friends conditions? "But Sherlock, what are you saying-"

"John, you are simply blabbering now, out with it!" Sherlock's stern gaze and his impatient finger tapping hastened John's speech faster than what he would of liked.

"Sherlock, what about Molly?" John looked up from the floor to meet the tall man's blank stare…

Sherlock's next words sent shivers down John's spine.

"Who's Molly?"

The woman in question was currently watching yet more distressed patients being wheeled past her room, she couldn't help but wonder if she would be meeting any of the unfortunate souls down in the morgue when she returned to work.

Looking over the cabinet by her bedside Molly glanced at the time, only mid afternoon, no matter how ironic it sounded Molly missed her inner time clock, her silent Mind Morgue, where hours passed in mere minutes. Contrary to her belief that everything in her Mind Morgue would disappear, quite a few memories remained, memories of a childhood overshadowed by her fathers premature death and her lack of her friends. She is sure that she has forgotten some people, but if they weren't regarded as important enough to be given there place in her mind after she awoke, they clearly weren't that important.

Down in the epicentre slab room of the mind morgue the freezer opened to condemn some more information to the cold unfeeling stores of its deep catacombs, a body is prepared for movement. Silently the slab inches across the floor, it's wheels squeal, resisting it's removal from the centre of the room. Slowly the body is slipped into its individual department, the door shuts suddenly sealing the deep storage freezer. Where thoughts disappear. Where memories are directed if unpleasant. When the pressure of storing the information gets to heavy. The door is sealed as a coping mechanism, as a precaution. A new body tag appears on the outside of the cold metallic compartment: the name of one Sherlock Holmes.


	10. Chapter 9

Sherlock sat alone in 221b, John had left, probably annoyed at something. Sherlock concentrated on a rather baffling case, a young woman; a pathologist nonetheless, was found shot outside her own doorstep a month ago. Apparently this woman had few friends and kept herself to herself. Lestrade seemed to be personally affected by the case as did John. Sherlock simply searched for connections within the mind blowing amount of information he already had. When he simply breezed past the young woman's hospital room both Lestrade and John had gawped at him, their eyes questioning.

Sherlock was confused, this was just another case, and he felt little emotion for this woman who lay unmoving in the hospital wing. He had been told she was awake but as of yet was unable to communicate with anyone. Sherlock only felt the smallest of shivers when her deep brown eyes turned and scanned him, before the young woman sighed and turned away. Turning to John he asked if there was any possibility that the young woman had seen her assailant, the doctor simply shook his head and asked how Sherlock was coping. Sherlock Holmes sighed, wondering what concern this mousy woman was to him.

Molly Hooper sighed, all these people kept wandering into her room, she couldn't speak to them on account of her breathing equipment and she didn't recognise a lot of them. The nurses kept saying that her condition was improving, and that most of her memory loss was only likely to be short term, but in the meantime she watched the unknown people enter and exit her room with dissipating interest.

The man in the long coat had come in again yesterday, with two others, the grey haired one had asked how she was doing, and she simply scowled, trying to assimilate who he might be. The shortest of the three looked aghast at her condition, and seemed intent on asking after her care; at a guess she would pitch this man as some kind of doctor. As for the third man, she wasn't entirely sure; when he entered she felt a peculiar sense of de ja vue, but that quickly passed as he coldly assessed her condition, his stony eyes giving nothing away.

Later on the nurses told her that those were her friends and that a Dr Watson had suggested some more communication therapy if her condition didn't improve. The grey haired man was apparently one DI Greg Lestrade, another name that meant little to her, although she had some kind of niggling memory about coffee. And the third man was Sherlock Holmes, rather unfeeling fellow according to the head nurse, he hadn't mentioned knowing her at all. For this name there was no memory's in Molly's Mind Morgue, although she got the feeling that there should have been…

Sherlock Holmes was frustrated, he was getting no where in this idiotic case, it should have been solved within minutes, and yet here he was, staring at the case file, trying to decipher DI Lestrade's appalling writing, without a body he could deduce very little, and when he had visited the crime scene he found that that idiot Anderson had already blundered all over it. It was puzzling to him why the young woman was a target, as far as he could discern she was a woman who kept polite company, lived on her own, and hadn't been involved in any wrong doing. For once Sherlock Holmes was confused, he must solve this case, although he was as of yet unsure why, flicking through her personal description he came across a newspaper article which made his blood run cold.

YOUNG PATHOLOGIST AIDS CONSULTING DETECTIVE IN NEW CASE.

Sherlock Holmes felt a shiver of dread run through his whole body; suddenly deleting some of his files didn't seem like such a good idea.


	11. Chapter 10

"Molly, will you just listen please! I know this is difficult, and believe me I understand how you are feeling but…"

On and on she yammered, talking about how her memory would return with time, how she should begin keeping a journal about everything she can remember from her past. Molly believes this is not going to help her. She understands that people are beginning to worry, but they don't get it. She can take information perfectly fine, but most of her past over at least the last 10 years has been erased. This ridiculous woman, this "THERAPIST" doesn't understand, insufferable woman as well, far too invested in her own ends. Molly pauses, taking a break from her internal rant, and realises that she sounds an awful lot like someone she knows, knew, forgot, whatever…but whom?

Sherlock was sitting cross legged on the couch, praying position was procured and his eyes were closed, hiding the violent stream of stormy emotions bubbling below the surface. He was trying to locate a file, his Mind Palace always had a back up room for deleted items, but it was becoming difficult to track the information he really needed.

He definitely needed this file, he had realised that he had made a grave error of judgement regarding the deletion of a certain young woman's room and he badly wanted to rectify it. Hastening in speed, he found the very file he required, a large box file brimming with small bits of information. Slowly he mentally trudged into the centre of his mind and created a doorway, depositing the file in the middle. He began organising the various bits of information into their different areas; pleased when he finally reconstructed the stained glass window which lit up the room. He was beaming by the time he had finished, vowing never to forget Molly Hooper again, for she counted far more than even Sherlock himself knew.

Molly turned over, ignoring the still constant stream of words spewing forth from the other woman's mouth. She was pleased when another nurse entered and stated that her unceremonious visitors had arrived, toddling off with some backhand comment about proper visiting times. Turning back to the doorway Molly waited for the now almost familiar faces to enter, instead only one appeared,

"I am truly sorry Molly, I never wished to harm your feelings or purposefully endanger you, I have personally failed in my duty as a gentleman to protect you from harm, and for that Molly I am truly bereft. Molly Hooper, it was a grave mistake to delete you from my mind and I want you to know that your room has been installed once more. I don't think I ever want to experience the loss of your light again."

Any one else close to the mighty Sherlock Holmes would have been physically shocked to hear even a basic comment or gesture of gratitude, let alone a speech deploring himself for his own actions. Had Molly known who this crazy man was she might have reacted slightly differently, but as it stood Molly Hooper didn't know anything about him, and so her reaction varied somewhat from what the detective had expected.

"I don't know who you are, but I want you out of my room right now, I don't even know how you got in here in the first place, and I don't want to."

"But Molly, I truly am sorry…"

"I don't care how sorry you are, whatever your name is, I just want you out!"

"It's Sherlock..."

"What?"

"My name, it's Sherlock."

Finally Molly had had enough, "Right well, Sherlock, get out of my room, I don't need people I don't know confusing me even more…"

And with that Molly Hooper turned away from the crestfallen detective, who hadn't even considered that Molly Hooper may have also accidentally, deleted him.


	12. Chapter 11

"What do you mean she doesn't know you?" John and Mary sat awkwardly in 221B watching the great detective Sherlock Holmes stare into space with an altogether vacant look shining in his swirling grey eyes.

"She's deleted me." Sherlock answered the perturbed doctor with a curt manner.

"I thought only you could possibly do that?" Mary chimed in with a somewhat sarcastic tone, she knew what an absolute arse Sherlock had been to the pathologist for almost all the years of their acquaintance.

"Evidently she has developed some sort of mind storage device whilst within her coma, this has obviously been a place where all her important memories have been salvaged, a sort of back up device if you will…" Sherlock trailed off, if Molly had forgotten him she obviously didn't remember all the rude things he had said to her.

Suddenly a rather dangerous look entered Sherlock's eyes, John knew that look, it was one of which no good would come of. "Sherlock, what are you thinking…?"

"John, I can change her opinion of me, I can be kind to her, she won't remember all of those things I said to her before!"

And without anymore consideration Sherlock Holmes had grabbed his signature coat and disappeared into the hallway of 221B, John and Mary just looked at each other, an unfortunate sense of foreboding settling on both of their features.

Molly tossed and turned awkwardly in her dreams, her sleep affected by tall buildings and intermittent scenes of bloodshed, she couldn't remember where these horrible images were from but she knew within her own self that they were real. Always shadows danced within her mind, taunting her with their tall stature and fearsome mannerisms.

Suddenly she was aware of a presence within her room, simply standing and observing her, for some reason she felt unnerved yet not scared, this strange feeling of de ja vue pestered her as she turned to view the person loitering in the corner.

"You again? What do you want this time?"

"Molly, I know you don't remember me, but I want to help you get your memory back." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the woman within the small bed. Gone was the usual doe eyed innocence, replaced by suspicious hostility. He craved for that missing emotion, the love that made Molly Hooper who she was.

"Why would you help me, I don't even know you, let me guess; you think I have something to offer. Well sorry to disappoint but after the few visits I've had from various people it is quite obvious that I don't count for much."

At this Sherlock felt his heart break momentarily at recalling the last situation in which the young woman had uttered that very statement. And for some reason it saddened him. This whole situation had spiralled out of control, this memory restoration was no longer just to solve a case, it was so much more. Sherlock Holmes simply stared at Molly and for the first time tried to categorise what she meant to him. His conclusion was somewhat disturbing to his well constructed sector based mind.

Sherlock Holmes felt his supposed non existent heart clench painfully, he had feelings for Molly Hooper, and he feared that he was too late.


	13. Chapter 12

As Molly was wheeled through domestic smelling corridors and expressionless walls she considered her earlier thoughts of death, what if she did… well…would anyone miss her? Of course she thought and tried to summon a smile, but she couldn't, the pain in her head was growing worse and she could not voice her opinion, the nurses said she had had a small relapse and that they were taking her to perform another MRI. Whenever she tried to speak, a hoarse whisper of nothing escaped her lips. She could easily formulate sentences, just not say them. Molly thought back to before, why did this Sherlock want to help her, what had she ever done for him?

Late in the morning Sherlock woke to the buzzing sound of his phone, it was sure to be either John or Lestrade he would've rather had Lestrade any day. His relationship with John wasn't that wonderful at the moment, they argued about what to do about Molly and had feuds about Sherlock's supposed feelings toward the petite pathologist. Ultimately Sherlock won; John seemed to shrug it off, but whenever Sherlock contacted him, he always had a message rejection the notion of solving a case with the detective. Sherlock picked up the phone and opened up the text; it was John:

To SH:

Sherlock, you might want to get to the hospital, Molls is having a relapse, and they seem to think that something else is wrong with her. Shall I call Mycroft?

Sherlock blinked, uncomprehending of the message he had just read, why was Molly so gravely ill again? Why wasn't she getting any better. Sherlock slumped in his chair sighing inwardly about his raging predicament, caring is not an advantage, but what about when caring is the only thing to do? Listlessly lifting the device to reply to his friend.

TO JW:

John, calling Mycroft will not be necessary, we have enough problems on our hands with Molly without that git getting involved, and I'll make my own way there. Make sure she's okay John, I'm counting on your expertise here, keep her safe.

When Molly came through the MRI scanner she hurriedly tried to sit up, eager to see her scan and to know what was wrong. After coming out of a deep coma, she had been advised to take it easy, but Molly Hooper had other ideas. There were no longer bandages around her brain and the scab was healing well, the doctors had diagnosed that she had lost a lot of blood and her injury would take months to heal sufficiently, but the amount of complications arising from her head wound were beginning to concern her a lot more than her original ailment. The doctors thought that Molly would be able to return to her room, they would be briefing her about their findings soon. And so Molly was wheeled back through the sterile hallways less reassured now than she ever had been. Sherlock Holmes watched from a distance, one silent, salty sentiment running down his cold, pale cheek.


	14. Chapter 13

"Miss Hooper, I'm afraid there's been a rather worrying development in your treatment options…" The concerned, young looking doctor shuffled nervously from foot to foot: he had obviously been entrusted to deliver some particularly bad news. Unfortunately for the young man, Molly Hooper was in no mood to be pussy footed around, being a doctor herself she knew exactly the feelings that this lowly intern was having, this did not entirely mean that she was sympathetic to his predicament.

Narrowing her eyes the frail woman looked far more dominating than she ought to, opening her petite mouth a quiet but deadly statement escaped her chapped lips;

"Just tell me what the hell is wrong and go and fret about some other poor wretch, I don't require your pathetic attempts at pity, I am also a doctor: and I want you to tell me the truth."

"We believe you have retrograde amnesia, you seem to be able to remember things from long ago, and your cognitive functions of movement and speech seem to be remarkably intact. In short Miss Hooper, your outward functions are returning as normal, however your memory is not really progressing how we would have hoped at this point in time. Tell me, have you met anyone you know from say the past 6 years?"

"Of course, some of the nurses have been here far longer than that, only yesterday I met Nurse Caldwell when she came into my room!"

"Hmm, you see Molly, if I can call you that…Nurse Abigail Caldwell doesn't work here anymore, she transferred over two years ago, the woman you spoke to is her sister Zoe. With your permission, we'd like to run some more tests to try and stimulate any memories you have of other people, for now Miss Hooper, don't try to shut anyone out of your life, they may be vital to your recovery."

Without another word the young man flounced out of the room, sterile shoes squeaking on the laminate floor, not for the first time molly felt a prick of fear far down in her soul, how could she forget six years of her life?

Watching the nurses shuffle past busily tapping their pagers and making notes on clipboards, Sherlock felt a sense of hopelessness. Unable to continue trying to apprehend Molly's would be murder due to his complete lack of concentration and caught between trying to win the pathologist over or tell her what an arse he truly was. Sighing under his breath he watched the young doctor leave Molly's room, deducing his instant dislike for the pathologist and his philandering ways, he also seemed to think that stealing sleeping tablets from the hospital store would go unnoticed. Sherlock made a mental note to inform John of this clear breach of conduct.

Entering the pathologist's room he was surprised to find her sitting up in her bed, clearly struggling from the effort judging by the sheen of sweat coating her pretty face.

"Molly?"

The young woman continued to stare into space, her eyes fixed on the blank, white wall opposite her. Slowly her lips formed words:

"What if I can't remember? What if I never know who any of you really are, you could be telling me anything for all I know."

Sherlock Holmes tried to deduce the young, distraught woman before him and failed miserably, she had always had the ability to see his true nature that underneath his brash attitude was a solid beating heart. That was when he realised that he could never lie to Molly about whom he really was, it was also the moment he realised that he didn't want to.


End file.
